Keter Squad S01:E01 - Blood-Borne
by Kuraun15
Summary: Emory Edwards finds himself recruited as a member of the SCP Foundation's newest mobile task force, Upsilon-1, AKA Keter Squad. This task force's mission is to manage the alarming rise in Keter-class SCPs, creatures and objects which could cause apocalyptic events. For their first mission, the Squad must face a sentient, blood-borne pathogen! Rated T for violence.
1. Chapter 1

Keter Squad, S01:E01 – Blood-Borne

PART 1

"Frick. Crap. Screw it all." Emory Edwards was getting pissed. And to quite the severe degree as well. _Most people have_ normal _jobs_ , he thought furiously. He was speed-walking down the corridor of his workplace, hearing frequent shouts of alarm and mostly unintelligible orders coming from parts unknown. His mouth was twisted into an irritated sneer, his anger narrowing the focus of his eyes. _I was just about to get some frickin' coffee_ , a thought rocketed from the back of his head. His fists clenched ever-so-slightly tighter as the words coursed through his mind. The same fingertips presently putting pressure on his left palm were _this_ close to wrapping around the shiny handle of his favorite mug when the Euclid-level alarm went off. As his cheated hand withdrew from the mug, he muttered, "It was one of the new guys. I know it was. One of the green-as-a-pickle, inadequate, idiot _new guys_." Now, as he continued his warpath, he allowed his longish, messy black hair to get in his eyes. He'd have time to fix it after this was calmed down. As Emory got closer to the sounds, he realized that the orders and shouts were all in Spanish.

"1063", he growled, "Who was the halfwit who forgot the plant?" He sped up now, beginning to sprint. A Euclid-class _object_ that screws you over if handled improperly is one thing. A Euclid-class _being_ , in this case a wooden Nazi automaton with a literal wooden axeblade for a left hand (who, by the way, is often referred to as Pinocchio's homicidal German cousin by personnel), is quite another.

It'd only been a couple minutes after the alarm initially went off. Emory heard a loud _shunt_ come from up ahead as he slowed down. Four corridors (including the one he and several others were in) had been sealed from the circular room in which they all intersected (in a geometrically regular cross shape on the blueprints). Emory pushed several personnel aside and took the liberty of peering through the glass slit in the door just big enough for a person to see through. Inside the room and at the heavily reinforced metal door to the corridor on Emory's left, Freiherr von Schwarzwald (as the automaton refers to himself in writing; he can't speak) was going to town with his left arm. The withered-looking Nazi armband on Freiherr's right arm fluttered weakly with every strike.

Emory knew the doors in this facility were heavy-duty, but he'd also seen what Freiherr could do to granite, and unless his eyes deceived him, he was starting to make progress on the door, too. He dropped the small slat that opened to reveal the small viewing glass and stepped back. He looked back at the cowering personnel behind him. They knew who Emory was and what he was like. And as they had expected, Emory told them to run and mildly insulted them in the same sentence. They did as they were told, booking it down the corridor like a herd of so many scared cattle.

Emory could only conceive of one solution to the problem at hand. Freiherr is usually peaceable, so the idiot who let him out not only had to forget to close the door behind him, but also neglected to bring in a potted plant (Freiherr, who has stated that one of his two primary purposes is to protect the Black Forest in Germany, is extremely apprehensive about striking anything supporting or holding plant life) and had the gall to speak English within earshot. The swastika strapped to Freiherr's shoulder isn't there for nothing (you can probably guess what his other primary purpose is). _Someone's getting fired_ , Emory thought. Then, with a slight nod, he added to himself, _Unless Freiherr's already made mincemeat of him_.

Anyway, the only thing that Emory could conceive of doing was talking Freiherr down. In German. The only problem being that Emory is the furthest thing from an Aryan poster boy, being half-Jewish due to his mother. "Improvise, buddy, improvise," he muttered in self-assurance, "You'll be fine."

Emory's position at the facility was head of several guard squads. Not one penguin (as they were often called due to their black-and-white uniforms) made his rounds with Emory knowing. With this position of seniority came several privileges, including an override code for doors, provided they aren't in any restricted sections of the facility. Now was time to use one of those codes.

Emory punched it in, a small knot in his stomach forming. He knew all too well that he was stepping into a life or death situation.

But most probably into the death.

The door opened with a familiar mechanical _shoom_ , and fortunately, Freiherr was too occupied to take immediate notice. The clangs issuing from the door because of Freiherr's axe were a terrible cacophony now, without a soundproof barrier to keep them from reaching a bystander's ears. Emory stood stock still for a single moment, feeling like someone about to throw himself from a cliff while wearing a parachute that he didn't pack.

He cleared his throat. Freiherr struck the door at the very same time, and so he didn't hear. Emory sighed softly, waiting until Freiherr's arm was raised to clear his throat a second time. Freiherr stopped, and in his eerie, creaky way, turned towards Emory. _Just in time, too_ , Emory thought. The door was beginning to bow and crumple. Freiherr's blank, wooden eyes stared right through Emory. The monocle resting on the right one made it slightly harder to take him seriously. He lowered his axe slowly and cocked his head to the side a little, giving Emory the decidedly inappropriate image of a curious puppy. Emory flicked his eyes to the door behind Freiherr. A pair of alarmed eyes looked through the glass slit. Emory twitched his head to the left. The eyes widened slightly and departed.

It suddenly occurred to Emory that he hadn't said anything for a few seconds, as well as the fact that Freiherr's axe was getting a little too close for comfort. The only method he could think of using to stall, he knew would be impossible to live down. He looked around once more. No more nervous eyes looking in. He sighed and thought to himself: _Well, crap. Sorry, Mom._

Before he could second-guess himself, he slammed his heels together, slapped his left arm to his side, and raised his right arm into the air with an open, straightened hand. He yelled in a near-maniacal fashion, " _Sieg Heil!_ " Freiherr seemed to like that. He snapped to attention much like Emory and (very rapidly) raised his right arm. At that moment, he was the most perfect picture of a Nazi robot you could imagine. Emory relaxed (he was exceedingly glad it was over without any witnesses), and Freiherr shortly followed suit. Emory, thinking quickly, got lower to the ground and gestured like he wanted Freiherr to follow him. Freiherr did, and raised his axe, nodding. It could have meant: _An important Nazi op! Finally! I'll protect you._ Then again, it could have also been: _This is going in your back if you make a wrong move._ It goes without saying that Freiherr isn't great with emotion. Or smart.

Emory patiently led Freiherr into his enclosure, and motioned him to walk in. Emory whispered into his walkie-talkie, "Did the guy who let him out make it out?" A quick, crackling affirmative, and then Emory closed Freiherr's habitat. The Foundation found him in the Black Forest, so they modeled his habitat after the Black Forest. Freiherr is happy to live there.

Emory sighed heavily, straightened up, turned, and saw several personnel waiting with bated breath, all eyes on him. "It's…it's okay, guys," he tried, "Please don't…" His request was cut short by loud cheers. Emory isn't one for fanfare. Lowering his gaze slightly, Emory pushed his way through the crowd, being bumped, pushed, clapped on the back and shoulders, and occasionally kissed on the cheek by female personnel.

As Emory finally escaped the clutches of the crowd, he found himself face-to-face with someone he hadn't seen in the facility before. He wore a traditional suit with an obligatory accompanying tie, unassuming glasses, and (Emory was quite sure about this, but it's not like he'd ask) a toupee. His status was confirmed by a watch that only made Emory think, _That must cost a buttload_. High-status or not, however, this guy was a stranger in Emory's territory, and so, rather impudently, he asked the stranger, "What's your business here?"

The stranger laughed heartily but not unkindly. Emory's abrasive tone hadn't fazed him. The stranger extended his hand, saying, "Mr. Edwards, my name, I'm afraid, has to remain Administrator to you, but as it turns out, my business here _is_ you." Emory reluctantly took the Administrator's hand, shaking it momentarily. His grip, Emory noticed, wasn't the strongest, and Emory wasn't sure how much that bothered him.

The Administrator, when his grip had broken, beckoned for Emory to follow and began walking, motioning for the crowd to stay put. Emory, perhaps by intuition or perhaps not, felt that their walk to wherever they were going was not the time for questions. He guessed that would come a little later. And so it did.

When they reached their destination, it finally registered with Emory that they were in a heavily restricted area of the facility, only accessible by members of the administrative committee. This place was right up there with the Yggdrasil research area.

"Ah, my office," the Administrator's voice snapped Emory out of his thoughts. With some measure of amusement, Emory realized how close to an everyday office building the area looked. An image of Steve Carrell appeared in his mind, and it was all he could do to stifle a laugh. In somewhat of an eerie fashion, the Administrator smirked and said as he opened his office door, "Don't worry. We don't have our own Michael Scott." Emory's urge to laugh quickly dissipated.

The Administrator motioned for Emory to enter, and, taken off guard, Emory muttered a little "Oh" as he stepped through the door. Emory wasn't the only person in there. There were five others, all of whom looked like they worked in the security branch of the facility and all of whom looked vaguely familiar. They didn't say a word.

Before he'd even entered and closed the door, the Administrator asked, "How many of you still remember what SCP stands for? I know it begins to seem unimportant after a while."

The most rough-and-tumble looking of them all immediately piped up in a voice like sandpaper from underneath a massive, red biker mustache, "Secure, Contain, Protect, sir."

"Give the man a prize," the Administrator chuckled as he walked over to his desk, leaning on it and crossing his arms. He looked the speaker in the eye and continued, "Quite right, Mr. Cleric. Secure, Contain, Protect. It's a mission statement, that's true, but it's also an ever-present instruction. Those three things are never to be out of mind. Which is why you're all here. I assume you're all familiar with the mobile task forces employed here?" We all nodded, and he went on, "I've called you all here to organize a new one. Your official designation is Upsilon-1, but you can deliberate on a less formal name on your way to your first mission." It hit them all that they wouldn't even get a full explanation of their duties, their mission was so urgent. The Administrator finished, "Pack up, everyone. You're going to Russia!" Emory got that feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff again.


	2. Chapter 2

PART 2

At first, Emory didn't even get the chance to get acquainted with the other members of Upsilon-1 on the bumpy plane ride to Russia, as the Administrator was filling them all in via earpieces. "The SCP you're going after," he began explaining upon takeoff, "has been designated Keter-class. All of you know, I assume, what that means?" They all answered in the affirmative. A Keter-class SCP can cause either a mass-extinction or an apocalypse. With that being the case, there are plenty of ugly stories involving them. Some of these stories also concern teams who were in over their heads. The Administrator continued, "Over the past few months, there has been an alarming increase of Keter-class SCPs. I'm sure you all remember the day SCP-682 was brought in." Again, six affirmatives. 682 is a large, lizard-like creature with the ability to speak, although those are just two on its laundry list of uncanny characteristics. It hates any kind of living thing, with a special place in its heart for extreme misanthropy. The day it was brought into the Foundation's facility was, to say the very, very least, not pretty. Not many speak of it.

The Administrator went on, "These Keter-class SCPs are why you've been brought together. You're all capable security officers who've seen a breach or two in your careers, all of which you've handled admirably. This being the case, the Foundation isn't wasting any time giving you an urgent mission. You're heading to a coal mine on the Irkutsk Basin to assist a Russian operative of the Foundation. We can't disclose his real name, and so he's requested that you call him Vasily. The rest of the Russian branch is tied up trying to contain a situation near Lake Baikal, so you're all he's got. He knows more than I do and he'll be able to prepare you better, so…listen to him, and for now, get to know each other. Hope to see you back safe." There was a crackling for a few seconds, and then the connection on the team's earpieces cut off.

Emory was the first to speak up, noting, "He's a little cheerier than most of the higher-ups." A few chuckles floated around the mostly-empty transport plane. Aside from the team, their gear and their luggage, the plane had nothing to carry.

One team member, a woman Emory had seen but never formally met, spoke up. Her voice was unexpectedly high, considering her almost masculine musculature and tall stature (although neither of these things took away from her beauty; they were offset by her shiny, brown, bouncy hair and unscarred, almost statuesque face). She said, "He mentioned coming up with a name before we left. Anyone got any bright ideas?"

Another team member, a guy stretched across several seats, enthusiastically said in an oddly surfer-like voice, "Keter Squad! Came up with that on the spot. I think it's good."

The woman who'd asked the question shrugged and asked, "Anyone got any problems with Keter Squad?" The other four shook their heads.

The heavily mustachioed team member grunted, "Keter Squad it is, then."

Another member, the most apprehensive-looking of them all, a tired look in his eyes, asked quietly, "What do you all think we're in for?"

The surfer-dude (which was the only way Emory could think of him) responded with a slight laugh, "Dude, if you really are a head of security, you've been here long enough to know that none of us can _begin_ to answer that question." The tired guy looked a little embarrassed and looked down. The surfer-dude raised one hand towards the tired guy and said sympathetically, "But I understand why you asked it. This is new for all of us." The tired guy looked up again and nodded. The surfer-dude propped himself up on an elbow, looking intently at the tired guy.

After a moment during which the surfer-dude seemed to be contemplating the tired guy, he got up, walked across the plane (which only took a couple steps) and extended his hand, introducing himself, "Joshua Dickerson; my friends call me Josh. Yourself?"

The tired guy took Josh's hand, saying, "Callum. Callum Wheeler."

Josh dropped Callum's hand and nodded, "Nice to meet you, Callum." He walked back over to his row of seats and laid back down. He said loudly, "How about the rest of you?"

The woman raised her hand briefly and said, "Aleah Moore."

The mustachioed guy grunted, "Jeremiah Karol, at your service."

Emory spoke up, giving a small salute, "Emory Edwards."

The sixth member hadn't spoken thus far. He was listening to music on his phone through a pair of earbuds, bobbing his head and playing a game. Josh got up again and walked over to him, tapping him on the head and saying, "Hey."

The guy paused his game, took out one earbud, and looked up to see Josh smirking. "I'm sorry?" he said.

"Name?" Josh said, raising his eyebrows and smirking, "Come on, we've got to get to know each other."

The guy took out the other earbud and pocketed his phone, saying, "Oh, uh, sorry…Dayn Tesar." He shook Josh's hand.

Josh said, "Nice to meet you, Dayn," and went back to his spot. As he laid down, he added jokingly, "All this walking's making me tired." All members gave small chuckles. The conversation turned idle for a while after that.

Jerry (as Jeremiah had asked the others to call him) eventually asked, "What about a leader? Anyone want to nominate themselves?"

Emory shook his head and responded confidently, "No leader. If we're going to be a team, we're going to be a team of equals, because we're all on the same level anyway. Besides, we all know that getting caught up in petty stuff like leaders can get you killed in this line of work."

Jerry nodded and turned to everyone else, "I say we put it to a vote. All in favor?" He and Callum raised their hands. "I think we can skip the 'all opposed' part," Jerry sighed as he lowered his hand, "All right, no leader. We'll make it work." The conversation returned to its previous mundane track. By the time the plane landed on an improvised runway just outside the mine, Emory and the others didn't really know all that much about each other, but nonetheless they felt like a team.

When they'd slowed to a stop, the massive cargo door of the plane lowered and allowed the six of them exit. They were welcomed by a grizzled-looking man they could only assume was Vasily. He was standing about twenty yards from the precipice of the mine and about the same distance from the plane. He yelled with a surprisingly slight accent, "Welcome to Irkutsk, my friends!" He was wearing a hazmat suit, holding the helmet by his side.

Emory asked as they got closer to him, "Are we going to have to get in one of those?"

Vasily chuckled and said, "Not regularly, no. Not unless you go in to see the patients."

"Patients?" Dayn knit his brow. They'd reached Vasily and they were walking to the edge of the mine.

Vasily responded, "You'll see, my friend. Step carefully, now." They reached the edge, and Emory (as well as the others) were immediately struck by the monstrous size of the pit they overlooked. It looked as though you could fit a city within. You probably could. Vasily led them down a path carved into the side which lead steadily downwards along the side of the mine, going in a behemoth spiral. It was Vasily, Dayn, Callum, Josh, Aleah, Jerry, and Emory at the tail. Just before his head dipped below the edge and his view of the runway was obscured, Emory saw the plane fire up and take off. They were all in now.

A slight sense of isolation began to set in as they went further down. Emory didn't like it. _I need to make conversation_ , he thought. He said loudly so Vasily could hear, "So, Vasily, what's going on at Lake Baikal?"

Vasily laughed and replied, "I know as much as you do. The Foundation is getting it under control." He shrugged and finished, "I suppose we'll have to wait until they catalog…whatever it is." That wasn't very reassuring. The Foundation had botched damage control with SCPs before, and Irkutsk is right next to Lake Baikal. _I certainly hope they_ are _getting it under control_ , Emory thought as he considered these things. He was about to speak up again, and then he looked down to catch a glimpse of the bottom of the mine. It shut him up.

There was a collection of four plastic quarantine cells, delivered by helicopter and assembled on site, all of which were about ten feet wide, twenty feet long, and seven feet tall, arranged side-by-side. Emory had seen them before. They held three or four patients each. If the cells themselves were all he noticed, he probably wouldn't have been speechless. The unfortunate thing was that they weren't. The inside of each cell was plastered with a dark red substance, looking like someone had taken a large brush and spent several minutes flinging paint across the walls and ceilings of the cells. The path the team was on ended next to what used to be an entrance to a shaft but what was now a pile of rubble. Across from the cells, there was a massive tent, probably for Foundation personnel to sleep and research in.

The most horrific detail that Emory spotted, however, was a large black spot not ten feet from the cells. It was about nine feet across and looked like a burn pit, though Emory couldn't be sure from his distance. There was an indistinguishable mass of something in the middle of the burn pit that Emory could only guess was…organic. He looked away from the bottom and towards his fellow team members. All five of them were transfixed, so much so that Josh tripped and nearly went headlong down the path. He managed to regain his balance, but instead of learning from his mistake, he directed his gaze back to the bottom. Vasily didn't give it so much as a glance.

The walk didn't seem to last long, although that might've been because of how much the team had to think about on the way down. Why was the shaft collapsed? Why are the quarantine cells here? Why are they coated in red? And what _the frick_ is in the burn pit? They didn't have to wait too long for their answers once they reached the bottom.

As they passed the row of cells, Vasily pointed at one and said gravely, "Don't go near these. Not without protection." They didn't argue. When Emory reached the bottom, he tried to see inside. Despite his best efforts, the red substance was laid on too thickly to see anything inside. Emory had already figured out what it was. He just didn't want to think about it, because it would mean considering nightmarish possibilities. He wanted facts in their stead.

"Hey Vasily," he spoke up as they entered the tent, "What's, uh…what's in that burn pit?"

"It _was_ a blood-drenched monster," Vasily replied without looking at Emory, "Before that, it _was_ a member of the CDC." As the team dropped their bags at random cots, Vasily continued without further ado, "Your job here is primarily to protect us," – he gestured to the other Foundation personnel in the tent – "while we try to figure out just _what_ we're dealing with. We don't know enough to transport it safely. When we go in the cells to perform experiments, you go in with us. If nothing goes wrong, you shouldn't have to deal with what we have." It turned out something _did_ go wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

PART 3

Unlike what you might expect, sleep was the furthest thing from fitful for the members of Keter Squad. The crap they had witnessed mere hours beforehand wasn't much worse than some other situations they'd been in. Dayn had seen one personnel kill himself on SCP-162, a mass of hooks and line with compulsion effects. Remember 682? Jerry, while not a member of the capturing team, had been tasked along with the guards under his command with guarding the lockdown process for the creature. He saw more than one personnel meet his end. Aleah lost a friend to SCP-002, a ball of what the Foundation can only guess is flesh that seems to have a penchant for occasionally turning personnel into…furniture. Callum survived a breach of the cell containing SCP-173, an unsettling and murderous statue that can only move when it isn't being looked at. However, it wasn't all over before several personnel ended up with crushed windpipes, broken necks, and smashed skulls. Josh has spoken with SCP-049. That is a rattling experience, as 049 rarely speaks, and during some of his silent periods, he has decided to channel Frankenstein with some terrible results. Not to mention that his face looks like a plague doctor mask. And Emory? Well, he has the occasional odd dream. He doesn't enjoy talking about them, though. He doesn't enjoy _thinking_ about them, for that matter. Regardless, their sleep was all deep and dreamless. The cots were comfortable after the plane ride.

The following morning, they rose shortly after dawn and were given hazmat suits to change into. That day was to be the day they began helping with experiments. They hadn't when they had arrived only because Vasily and all other personnel didn't want to. When Emory asked why, he and the rest of Keter Squad were shocked to find out that the monster in the burn pit had been killed a few hours before they arrived. They could understand why the personnel weren't willing to conduct any more experiments that day.

Once in their hazmat suits, Keter Squad split up into three pairs (Emory/Josh, Dayn/Aleah, and Jerry/Callum), each pair accompanying a pair of scientific personnel (Vasily was with Dayn and Aleah). Keter Squad members were each armed with an automatic assault rifle, a sidearm strapped to their side, and a large combat knife. The scientists each had a small handgun strapped to one thigh. The rest of the scientific personnel stood outside the cells, ready to put them on lockdown. Keter Squad and six scientific personnel went inside three cells, not bothering to step inside the fourth. It was the most blood-stained, and Emory guessed it was the one the monster came from.

Once Emory, Josh, and their two assigned scientific personnel stepped inside their assigned cell, Josh looked quickly around. He groaned, "Dude, this is frickin' _sick_." Emory knew that despite Josh's surfer-like personality, he meant that word in the traditional sense. He saw what Josh was seeing too, after all, and he had to agree. It was, quite literally, sick.

If Emory didn't know any better, he might've thought that the Foundation personnel had flubbed an attempt at decorating the equipment, the beds, and the patients in a red color. And now he had to confront the reality of what he already knew was plastering the walls and ceilings (and as he stepped inside, he fully realized the floor was included as well) of the cells. It was blood. Human blood. It was human blood, fully human blood, and nothing but human blood. Some of it had dried to an almost…crunchy-looking extent (a thought which made Emory gag), while some of it was still fresh, liquid, and flowing. This latter collection of the blood was coming from and forming pools around the patients, both of whom were barely recognizable as human. Erratic breathing and the occasional twitch or shiver were the only indications that either of them were still alive. The other two beds were empty and egregiously bloodstained. The two afflicted patients were strapped down.

Emory said, "This is obviously some kind of illness. Have you determined its effects?"

One of the scientific personnel began speaking in Russian. The other stopped him. He turned and asked Josh and Emory something, probably along the lines of "Do you speak Russian?" Josh and Emory just shook their heads. He sighed and said, "I apologize. You're the first Americans we've had here in some time. I'm surprised, though. You'd think, with the Russian branch of the Foundation being second in size only to your branch, that the higher-ups would teach you something about the language."

"Most of the money goes towards combat training," Emory half-joked, "No such luck." It was truly a half-joke, as a lot of dollars really were sunk into handling weapons and hand-to-hand.

"Mm," the scientific personnel said, nodding and extending his hand, "Alexander. And you?"

Josh and Emory introduced themselves.

"This here," Alexander continued, pointing to his companion, "is Konstantin. He doesn't speak English."

"Well, since I know _he_ knows what he's doing, that's fine by us," Josh smiled.

Alexander turned back around and tended to the monitors hooked up to the patient, injecting something into him and explaining, "Obviously, this is – was – an active mine. And where there is an active mine, there are miners. One, who, I'm afraid, I'm only allowed to call Patient Zero, fell and cut himself at work. Some dust got in the cut. The only thing we can guess is that there was a collection of spores there. Anyway, he returned to the outside to get treatment. The doctor on site got some of the blood on him. That was several months ago. Twelve days ago, the doctor began bleeding out of _every bodily orifice_. This was following symptoms like a cold and bloody aspiration. Seven days ago, the entire crew was infected and bleeding. Four days ago, a team from the CDC arrived and was expediently infected. Three days ago, we arrived and quarantined all patients. That same day, we learned what happened after the bleeding: projectile, bloody vomiting. It was too much for us to clean up. Yesterday, Vasily attempted to sedate a barely-lucid patient so he could perform experiments. The patient began to scream and thrash, and then…he grew bear-like teeth and claws, tearing free from his restraints. Vasily shot him twice in the face. We burned the body."

Emory thought of the burn pit and swallowed hard.

"What'd you just put in that guy?" Josh asked.

"Medicine," was Alexander's answer, "We've been trying all kinds. This one is pretty hard-hitting, so if it doesn't work, it will actually hurt him, but…I'm not sure he'd notice at this point."

Emory had an unsettling thought and asked Alexander, "How do you know that this guy won't…turn?"

He had a sneaking, terrifying suspicion of the answer before it came.

Alexander looked at Emory and solemnly replied, "We don't. We'll have to wait and see."

Emory never liked waiting. He supposed that none of the others did either. And it wasn't because of the act of waiting itself. No, they'd gotten used to that in their former jobs as soldiers, special agents, and officers of the law. It, like many other things to consider when working for the Foundation, was what they were often waiting _for_. Waiting never meant anything good. So, it's easy to understand why Emory and Josh were both reluctant to wait. In fact, Emory was fighting the urge to suggest putting the patients out of their misery, and this urge wasn't because of any pity on his part. He just felt as though he might go insane if faced with that dreadful _waiting_. Emory didn't air any of these worries, and neither did Josh. It wasn't the time.

Alexander kept watch of the patient's vitals while Konstantin administered to the other one. Josh asked, "Where's Patient Zero?"

Alexander smiled grimly, "He slept not two meters from you."

The color drained out of Josh's face.

Alexander chuckled, again grimly, "Not to worry, my friend. As long as he doesn't bleed on you, you'll be fine."

After this seemingly innocuous conversation, Josh and Emory carefully observed the procedures Alexander and Konstantin meticulously performed. Nothing of note occurred.

That night, they all went to bed again, wary but not worried. What must've been only a few minutes following Emory falling deeply asleep, he found himself in a place that was familiar in the worst kind of way.

 _Oh, crap_ , he thought. He looked to his immediate right.

There he was.

A man dressed in suit that was surely from the fifties or sixties complete with a matching hat. He was looking straight ahead, a serene expression on his face, just like always. His right arm was resting on the right armrest of the bench he and Emory were sitting on. The other was stretched across the back of the bench. Emory looked in the direction the man was looking. The bench they were on seemed to be in a municipal park, though it wasn't one Emory had ever seen. Beyond the park's limits, there was a large, prosperous-looking city. Well, it would be, if it weren't being destroyed by an unseen force. Explosions and implosions of all kinds occurred right in front of them.

The man sighed, as though contented. He might as well have been watching a delightful animated film.

Emory turned back towards him. "Let me go," Emory said through gritted teeth. He'd made this request before with no avail, but it never hurt to ask, he supposed.

The man chuckled and closed his eyes, his smile breaking out into a grin. "Ahh," he breathed.

"Let me _go_ , screwhead," Emory grabbed the front of the man's suit.

Emory's hand felt like it was suddenly, hellishly cramped, and he pulled back from the man. The pain stopped. The man lowered his arms from their places and folded his hands in front of him. He turned to Emory, the grin returning to a smile. His face was unremarkable, amiable.

And yet terrifying.

He said, "The hour is nigh, Emory. You have some new friends and you're going on new adventures. I'm glad you've finally gotten here. I have some advice for you."

The man had never said these things before. It had only always been one statement and one question before this dream. Emory flicked his eyes to the city again at the thought of them. "And that would be…?" Emory trailed off inquisitively.

The man leaned forward and answered, "When they talk to you…listen, and respond carefully."

"Who's 'they'?" Emory asked, also leaning forward.

"You think I'm going to tell you?" the man responded, raising his eyebrows and smiling a little wider, "Oh, come on. You know people like me. We enjoy being cryptic. Anyway…"

He returned to his original position, and Emory felt compelled to look to the city. He knew what was coming.

"I know you're curious." The statement.

"You want to see?" The question.

 _No actually I don't I'd rather not please spare me this no no no_ –

An enormous flame rose from the city.

 _Not again I don't want it_ –

A red, reptilian eye the size of an average neighborhood rose after it.

 _Oh its face I can't stand the thought of its face_ –

An infernal screech louder than a jet engine.

 _A MOUTH A TONGUE TEETH IT COULD TEAR ME APART_ –

Emory shut his eyes, despite the feeling like something was trying to tear them off.

"All right, fine." Emory's eyes snapped open in the real world, and he found himself soaked in cold sweat.


End file.
